


cold hands, warm heart

by Arkenstoner



Category: Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Not Beta Read, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Insert, no y/n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29426889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkenstoner/pseuds/Arkenstoner
Summary: Llewyn's cold and wet and he doesn't have a place to stay for the night, so you bring him inside.
Relationships: Llewyn Davis/AFAB!Reader, Llewyn Davis/Reader, Llewyn Davis/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	cold hands, warm heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AriannaWolff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriannaWolff/gifts).



> For the Oscar Fandom (Valentine's) Fic Exchange organised by [sergeantkane](https://sergeantkane.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr 💖 My first Oscar fic, I hope you like it 🥺👉👈
> 
> Heads-up: this is unbeta'd, English isn't my first language, and half of this was written while I was suffering from a bout of meningitis so I've probably missed a whole bunch of grammar/spelling mistakes. Warnings for recreational drug use (cannabis/marijuana), explicit language, unprotected p in v sex (stay safe, wrap it up), and non-flashing gifs in the moodboard.
> 
> **Happy Valentine's Day!** 💝

A flurry of pain-induced curses rises from two floors below and you peer down through the fire escape grille. A man, poorly dressed for the weather, with a headful of drizzle-softened Roman curls and a guitar case, nurses the stinging fingers of his right hand. They’ve narrowly escaped being amputated by the Allen’s heavy, faulty sash window. Yeah, Marty’s been meaning to ask the super to fix that.

“Hey,” you call down, your breath misting the frigid mid-February air, “you okay?”

He blinks up through snowflakes floating down like cherry blossom petals. “I guess?” He kneads his wounded fingers into the palm of his left hand. “Just so you know, I’m not breaking and entering. You don’t need to call the cops or anything.”

You know. You recognised him immediately. “It’s Llewyn, right?”

A frown knits his brows. Warily, he asks, “Do I know you?”

“Not really. I see you come and go every other week, though. Marty and Sue must really like you.”

“Like is a strong word," he says, with a snort. "I think they just have a high tolerance for my bullshit.”

Your baked laugh—too loud and girlish—echoes in the narrow alley. “Can you get in?”

He shakes his head. “Latch’s caught. Looks like I’m locked out.”

“They leave you a key?”

“They’re not _that_ tolerant.”

It's not like you're shouting, but your voices carry in the close air and neighbours are already yelling at you to shut up. You laugh it off and wave Llewyn up to your floor.

He gives the window to the Allen’s apartment a forlorn, longing look—as if he just blew through Plans A through Z for the evening—and trundles up the rattling steel steps. His nose twitches when he gets to your platform and sees you wrapped up in an old comforter like a human burrito, nursing a hand-rolled joint. “That what I think it is?”

“It’s medicinal,” you say, innocently, nodding at the orthopaedic boot encasing your fractured foot and offer him the spliff.

He hesitates, like it’s some kind of trap, then shrugs out a ‘why not’ and sits beside you. “Llewyn Davis.” He offers you his hand, fingers poking out of frayed gloves.

You give them a cursory examination. “I don’t think there’s any permanent damage. Always hurts more when it's cold.” But, just in case, you don’t let go of his hand, incubating it between your gloves.

“That your professional medical opinion, Doctor…?”

He’s fishing for a name, which disappoints you, because you thought he'd remember. Most men remember the girl they get punched in the face over. “Dancer, not doctor," you correct, hoping it will jog his memory.

He glances at the boot. “Someone tell you to break a leg and you took them literally?”

“Funny. When you’re the wrong side of twenty-five old injuries start to add up.” You don’t want to embarrass yourself with the truth: that you tripped over your own feet.

Llewyn dips his chin into his scarf and wraps his free arm around his legs, prompting you to share your comforter. He huddles gratefully beneath it and you can feel the damp through your parka. “What happened to your coat?”

“I’m between coats right now. It’s—” He passes you the joint and tries a name on you that almost offends you. “Right?”

“Not even close. You really don’t remember me at all, do you?” Were you really _that_ forgettable?

“Nonono—you're pretty girl at the Allen’s New Year’s Eve party.”

You roll your eyes. That was almost smooth, except there were a lot of pretty girls at that party.

“Waitwaitwait, it’s—” His second guess is so close you decide to finally tell him who you are. A smile of recognition and realisation dawns on his face. “Yeah, that's it. I remember your boyfriend, too. Kind of a jerk, as I recall.”

“So were you,” you point out and Llewyn doesn’t disagree with you.

“I was kind of a sorry mess that night. I wouldn’t’ve hit on you if I’d known you were with someone. Your boyfriend gonna come out here and punch me for talking to you again?”

“I’m between boyfriends right now. And if it’s any consolation you were right about him: he was kind of a jerk.” But you don’t want to ruin your high by discussing your ex. You nod at the guitar case at Llewyn’s feet. “I’ve seen you perform a couple of times.”

“Yeah?”

“At Arliss and that place on West Twenty-Sixth—”

“The Owl Bar?”

“What a weird place.”

“I know, right? It’s almost creepy.” He steals a glance at you, looks away so you don't accuse him of staring. “Would I have seen you on, I dunno, like Broadway or something?”

“I was never _that_ good of a dancer. I teach four-to-seven-year-olds the basics of ballet over at the Academy.” The snow’s coming down fast and heavy now and you brush the flakes crowning Llewyn’s curls. “Think we’d better get inside. You know if you don’t have a Plan B, you can stay here tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll figure something out.”

“ _Now?”_ It’s after midnight. “Llewyn,” you reason with him as he helps you to your feet, “unless you’re planning to murder me, my roommate and her cousin, it’s fine. Really.”

“You got a couch I can sleep on?”

“Couch is taken." You explain your roommate’s cousin has an audition at Julliard in the morning. Llewyn starts to say something about the floor being fine, but you cut him off. “You can sleep with me.” Shit, that came out wrong. “In my room I mean.”

It feels like you’re back in high school even though you’re a grown-ass woman and neither your roommate nor her snoring cousin would have any objections to you bringing someone home. You usher Llewyn into your cosy lamp-lit room and tell him to remove his clothes.

He blinks at you with lashes so stupidly long and thick you’re sure they brush his cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t mean _all_ of them. Jesus. I’m gonna lay them over by the radiator, dry them out.” You grip a fistful of his sleeve. “I don’t know how many blocks you walked in the rain, but you’ll be lucky if you don’t catch a cold, or worse.”

Timidly, Llewyn shrugs the corduroy jacket off his shoulders. You won't understand until much later that it’s not being stripped down to his underwear that embarrasses him—he's not shy in that way. It’s your kindness. It’s unfamiliar to him; something he’s unaccustomed to navigating. While you hobble out to the living room as quietly as possible, he sits tentatively on the edge of the bed, figuring you’ll throw him a spare pillow and a blanket for the floor. So when you return and tell him he’s welcome to share _your_ bed, he’s even more awkward and out of his depth. The floor _is_ an option—whatever he’s more comfortable with (you make sure he knows that)—but you seem so comfortable and unbothered by his presence that he decides to take you up on your offer.

And it's not like either of you plan to have sex or that it even crossed your minds (well, maybe a little). It sort of just _happens_ ; born of an unspoken need that you both share, and it starts when Llewyn shifts restlessly and his hand brushes the skin at the small of your back where your tank top has ridden up.

“Jesus!” You stiffen beneath the duvet.

“Sorry, I’m _sorry_. I didn’t mean—I wasn’t tryna cop a feel, all right?”

“It’s not that—Are your hands always that _cold?”_ It feels like someone backed you against an icicle.

“I can put the gloves back on…”

But he doesn't need to do that. You reach behind you for his arm and wrap it around you, lacing your fingers through his and your body heat slowly does the trick.

“Better?” His breath warms the back of your neck and he shifts to close the space between the two of you.

“A little.” You squirm and clamp your thighs together to stem the first prickle of the heat that’s begun to throb between your legs—involuntarily pressing the curve of your ass into Llewyn’s crotch. He responds receptively, even before an apology has formulated in your brain.

“Can I touch you?” His voice is husky, filled with the gentle promise of sex and you’re immediately intoxicated by it. If you’re _really_ honest with yourself, your attraction to Llewyn was instantaneous; you’ve wanted him since that New Year’s Eve party. You think you might have left with him if your dickhead of a boyfriend hadn’t made a scene and Llewyn hadn’t escalated things.

In answer you guide his hand down beneath the waistband of your pyjama bottoms and inside your underwear. Llewyn pushes into the V between your thighs to palm your cunt and you roll onto your back, hoisting your hips and ass to get your PJs and underwear down over your thighs. He thumbs your clit with skill and attentiveness, as if he were strumming at the strings on his guitar. The appreciative moan that escapes you is muffled as his mouth meets yours, Tonguing at the seem of your lips, he plunges a probing middle finger inside you. Blindly, you feel for Llewyn's boxers and tug them down over the swell of his ass until his arousal bobs free and you’re both half-naked.

“ _Fuck_ ,” you hiss as he slides a second finger, knuckle-deep, inside your pussy. With one hand threading through his thick dark still-damp curls, the other takes his length and begins to stroke him.

“You want me inside you, dove?”

“Yes.” Fuck _yes_. You _know_ he’s just as eager for you when he begins thrusting into your palm.

Llewyn withdraws his fingers to help both of you out of your remaining clothing and then grips the base of his cock, lining it up with your entrance. Your petulant whine at his aching, teasing slowness is swallowed by a gasp when he finally pushes inside your heat. With a curse of tortured ecstacy, he fills you, his breath hot and damp against your skin. For an agonising moment that stretches unbearably, he stills—to let you adjust to him, to appreciate the delicious fullness—until you half plead, half order him to move. Llewyn doesn’t need to be told twice, rocking into you with shallow, measured thrusts that build to a feral crescendo; rough, hurried, balls-deep and cervix-bruising. He tells you how good you feel, how warm and wet and soft you are and your pussy clenches around him as if to draw him deeper, wanting him to hollow you out.

“Can I cum in you?” He’s close to his climax, breathing heavily. 

You tilt your head to nod against his shoulder and moments later Llewyn loses himself inside you with a cascading, half-choked moan of release. The pulsing knot at your core unravels, the walls of your cunt spasming to send warmth and eye-fluttering shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body. He fucks you through your orgasm, his pace slow and languid and sensual until you come down and he softens, his cum-smeared and pussy-slicked cock slipping out of you.

Llewyn shifts to your side, pillowing his head in the crook of your neck, arm slung across your breasts. Your bodies are sheened with cooling sweat and you pull the covers up over you before fisting your hand into his locks. A trembling sigh escapes him and his grip tightens around you, holding onto you like a drowning man hanging onto a buoy. Your bladder feels uncomfortably full and your cast-encased foot itches like a motherfucker but you don’t move. You don't let go of Llewyn Davis, either.

“You know I’m playing at The Small Blues Club tonight,” he tells you at the door, whispering because the Julliard cousin is still fast asleep on the couch.

“I did not know that,” you say.

“It’s over on Bleecker. You could come…if you wanted—that is, if you’re not doing anything. I don’t know what your plans are…if you have plans.” He rambles uncertainly. In the snowed-in, washed-out watercolour dawn there’s something diffident and a little standoffish about him; as if he knows the light exposes him for what he really is: a struggling musician trapped in a Kafkaesque existence, the future bleak as the New York skyline in winter. Probably not something a pretty ballet teacher with an apartment and a good credit score would be interested in. “Maybe I could buy you a drink afterwards? I know I’m kind of doing things ass-backwards but I'd really like to see you again. Last night wasn't just—”

“On Bleecker?” You rescue him from himself. He’s _so_ wrong about you: you _are_ interested. “What time should I be there?”

Llewyn scratches him forehead like you've surprised him with a complex math problem. “Any time after seven?” Like it's no big deal; trying to conceal his excitement the way people who are used to being disappointed often do. “That mean you’ll be there?”

“It’s not a date,” you warn, in your most serious teacher-voice.

“Oh, no,” he agrees, nodding along earnestly, “definitely not that.” It's his eyes that give that give him away: big and brown and puppyish, and smiling.

You both know it definitely is.


End file.
